


The Dragon and the Stag

by Paige242



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, King Jon Snow, Next Generation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 01:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20332030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paige242/pseuds/Paige242
Summary: Several decades in the future, Jon and Gendry watch their sons and muse about their unexpected friendship.Times have truly changed for the dragons, stags and wolves.





	The Dragon and the Stag

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about 20 years after the show ends.  
Jon is has accepted his lineage and is King (this could be show AU or could fit into a world where Bran is no longer king for one reason or another).   
This is Jon embraces being a Targaryen, Jon/Sansa and Gendry/Arya wish fulfilment for me.   
Hope you enjoy!

Jon watched as his son’s opponent finally yielded, dropping his dulled sword to the floor with a loud clang.

“You always get me with the left swipe!” the defeated young man declared as he removed his stag-shaped helmet to reveal a mop of sweat dampened dark hair. Jon had always thought that the item looked horribly uncomfortable but the young man’s father had forged it for him and he understood his attachment to it.

The wars of the past may have been all but forgotten (and he thanked the gods for that)—but family symbols were still important in these lands.

Jon, of all people, knew that better than most and both teens currently wore theirs with pride.

His son removed his helmet next, the red dragon on his chest glinting in the fading light as he stepped forward to give his cousin a good-natured pat.

“Better luck next time, Ric,” he said with a satisfied grin. There was no true animosity between the two—they had grown up like brothers and would undoubtedly defend each other to the death—but there were still gloating rights to be won from their daily practice sessions. Jon remembered such feelings of victory when he had sparred with Robb back in his own youth and it warmed him to see the same sporting bond between Ric and Aemon. They were only two moons apart in age and were now nearly inseparable as they both neared their sixteenth years.

“That was a good effort from you both,” Jon noted as he took a couple of steps towards the middle of the room where both boys stood, attempting to catch their breath.

Despite his many duties in the court, he had taken it upon himself to train the two personally. His fighting days were behind him now but he had been a skilled swordsman in his prime. Initially, there had been protests from the palace trainers but they’d had little choice but to relent to their king.

Although he had done everything he could to run from this fate the gods had eventually given him no choice. To the people, Jon Snow had finally become Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name and he had slowly come to accept that certain destinies were inescapable. But his unwanted role did not mean he had given up all his simple pleasures. With his family, he could still be Jon and he could still spend time with his wife and children as he saw fit. Training Aemon was one of his greatest joys and he had been more than happy to include his nephew and brother-in-law during their many long stays at King’s Landing.

“We’ve gone a bit late today,” he heard Gendry note as he too walked forward onto the sparring floor. “You boys need to wash up before dinner,” he paused, glancing pointedly at his own son. “And no showing up in your armour this time, Ric. Your mother may not be much for protocols but you know how much she hates it when you do that.”

The dark-haired teen gave a small eyeroll before glancing at his cousin knowingly. They both remembered how Arya had scolded him for ‘clanking around like a sweaty pile of tin’ at dinner last week. His cousin was a small woman but everyone knew she was not to be crossed. Neither was his own wife. But Sansa had always been far better at upholding courtly manners than her younger sister and all three of their children had been properly trained by their mother. Luckily for all their eardrums, Aemon had never dared to show up for dinner in his fighting attire. He was a fine fighter, but he also possessed the fine manners befitting of a crown prince. Jon was happy to say that he was a wonderful combination of them both.

“Come on, Ric,” Aemon began playfully as he brushed a curly blonde lock out of his eyes. “We might be getting better at this fighting stuff, but I don’t think either of us can take on your mum.”

Ric snorted in agreement and, with a few more playful shoves and banter about who would be victorious during their next round, the boys loudly hung up their weapons and made their way out of the chamber door.

For a moment, both fathers stood in bemused silence as they watched their sons disappear down the hallway. Jon knew they were both equally proud of their children and he had grown grateful for Gendry’s company during the past several years. The man’s courtship with Arya had been long and complex, and remained fairly untraditional for those of their status, but they had settled into their version of normal over the years. The Lord of Storm’s End was happy to let his wife follow her adventurous whims and happy to take charge of their son’s upbringing.

As King and Queen, Jon and Sansa did not quite have the same freedom but they too had managed to make the best of the situation they had been dealt. His wife was, and always would be, an elegant and natural queen and Jon had been grateful to have her at his side during the first reluctant years of his reign. It had taken him a long time to accept who and what he was and he doubted that he would have been able to take on his unwelcomed birthright without her. The distant sister-turned-cousin he had barely known as a child had become his greatest love and his closest confidant. She had pulled him back from the brink and given him the family he had never dared to dream of. He had never asked for this life, never wanted these burdens—and yet, he was happy.

“Aemon looks more like you by the day,” Gendry noted as he began to examine the various weapons the boys had used during their training. At his core, his brother-in-law was still a blacksmith with a skilled eye for weaponry. And he was still the gentle, humble man Ned Stark had found many moons ago, too. Nothing like garish the father he had never known. “And he fights as well as you, too.”

Jon felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. Many had commented on how many features the two shared and he often felt as if he was starring into his own youthful face when he looked upon his eldest son.

Aside from one striking difference, of course.

“He has my father’s hair,” he replied, glancing towards one of the dragon shields which hung on the armory wall. His son’s appearance had initially been a bit of a shock when the young prince had been born. His two youngest looked entirely Stark, as he had expected all his children to. But Aemon had been born looking every inch a dragon. His father’s blood was, apparently, much stronger than it seemed. “Unlike me, none can doubt that he belongs to my father’s house.” Jon paused, quietly correcting himself. “My house.”

Beside him, Gendry let out a quiet snort as he ran a hand through his dark beard. “I know that feeling,” he noted with a hint of bitterness in his tone. Even though he had done his best to embrace his unexpected role, the man had never been terribly proud of his link to Robert Baratheon. The history books did not remember King Robert well—he had been a drunken adulterer, cuckholded by his wife and killed by a mere boar. 

But there was no doubt that his legitimized son had a remarkable resemblance to the former monarch. Increasingly so as he reached middle age. Gendry was not the ill-mannered lush his father had been—quite the opposite, really. But he had still become more portly in recent years and there was nothing he could do to stop the lords and ladies at court from mummering about his Baratheon visage.

“Though you are more dragon than you seem to think,” the man added, looking him up and down. “Especially now.”

Jon knew that his friend was referring to the shockingly white streaks which had begun to appear in his own hair in recent years. Age would not bring him towards a more natural grey, it seemed, and the white locks were more numerous with each passing moon. Sansa assured him that he looked handsome and distinguished but his stomach churned uncomfortably as the reflection he had always tried to see as pure Stark slowly began to fade away. In truth, his refined features had always been more like his true father’s than he cared to acknowledge. Those who had known Prince Rhaegar often said that Jon shared the handsome features of old Valyria. And as his colouring began to change with age it felt as if the last vestiges of his old life were slipping from his grasp. 

At least he would never lose his grey eyes. They were the proud eyes of a Stark and yet another feature he had passed on to his son.

That gave him some comfort— but he knew it was still fruitless to deny his true place.

As implausible as it had once seemed, the bastard of the north had become the trueborn dragon king and there was to be no turning back now.

There was to be no repudiation of the facts.

Jon let out a slow breath before looking up at his old friend. Despite it all, he felt a slight smile cross his face as an idea suddenly came to mind. There were some improbable things that he did not wish to change, he mused with satisfaction. and his bond with Gendry was one of the most striking examples.

“If only our fathers could see us,” he said before letting out an amused chuckle. “The dragon and the stag, as close as brothers. And their grandchildren closer still.”

His companion replied with a hearty laugh, clearly following his thought.

It was odd to think of themselves as the descendants of two men who had once been the greatest rivals. Two men who had started a war which had echoed through the decades. 

Yet it was the bizarre truth. 

Gendry’s father had struck down his own, all for the love of his mother. Perhaps he should have felt some resentment for that but neither of them had ever known their fathers and Jon had never believed in holding onto the vestiges of the past.

The sins of their fathers were not their own.

This was a new age—a better age—and for that, he was grateful.

“We may bear a physical resemblance but I, for one, am glad our similarities are only skin-deep.” Gendry replied, shaking his head as he thought about the futility of times past. He gave Jon a congenial pat on the back. “You’re a brother to me, and you always will be,” he paused, smirking playfully, “even if you are swaggering, dragon-blooded Targaryen.”

Jon snorted in response, ready to counter his friend’s good-natured taunt. “And you are a brother to me, even if you happen to be a stubborn, stag-headed Baratheon.”

The two shared another laugh.

“I’ll drink to that,” Gendry declared, a wide smile on his face as he glanced towards the door. “I’d say we have at least fifteen minutes to sneak in a pint of ale before our wives become impatient with us.”

Jon snorted again as the thought of his annoyed wife came to mind. She was indeed a fierce one and, after nearly twenty years together, he had learned it was best not to defy his formidable queen.

And there were few things she hated more than lateness and Arya would surely join her in berating them if they staggered to the dinner late.

“Perhaps we have more in common with our fathers than we thought,” he mused as the two friends began their trek towards his sitting room for their well-deserved drink. “We’re both helpless in the face of a Stark woman.”

“Indeed we are, my friend.” Gendry agreed without a moment of hesitation. “Indeed we are.”


End file.
